


I'll Hold Your Hands (They're Just Like Ice)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Twelve Fics of Christmas 2020 [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Cold, Christmas Fluff, Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Team Flash as caretakers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: A Christmas cold has Team Snart down for the holidays, and Team Flash volunteers themselves as nursemaids – whether certain people appreciate it or not.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Leonard Snart, Caitlin Snow & Mick Rory, Lisa Snart & Cisco Ramon, Lisa Snart/Cisco Ramon (implied)
Series: Twelve Fics of Christmas 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043328
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	I'll Hold Your Hands (They're Just Like Ice)

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, all! I'm kicking off a new Twelve Fics of Christmas - and after the year 2020 has shaped up to be, I'm needing some serious Christmas fluff in my life. So, here we go with the first one - comments, as always, are love. :)
> 
> Title is from "Baby, It's Cold Outside".

“’m gonna k…ki…ki…ah-ah- _ahh_ — _ahh-choo! AHH-CHOO!!_ ”

Mick drops back into the couch, wiping furiously at his battered nose, with a string of half-coherent obscenities, “…gonna _kill_ him…” he finally manages to finish. He looks positively mutinous, which is rather impressive for a man currently in sweats, an old robe, and a pair of garish orange socks whose nose is so red and raw that it looks two seconds away from falling straight off his face.

“Give me that,” Caitlin snatches the used tissue with a huff and places a new box of Kleenex in front of him, “When did you last take your cold medicine?”

He grunts, which she accurately translates to mean he hasn’t taken it since the last time she was here to personally hand over the water and Nyquil. “Novel concept though this may be for you, Mick,” the first-name basis was something Caitlin held out on valiantly, refusing to drop the professional boundary when Lisa first sent out a plea for help to Cisco’s phone, that a nasty bout of Christmas cold had started with Snart and spread like wildfire among the three of them, but she finally caved a couple days ago: even she could only be so detached when the man hacked up half a lung and nearly gave himself a stroke in the process, “if you don’t take this seriously, you’re never getting better.”

“Takin’ it serious enough.” He grumbles; his head falls back into the worn leather cushions like it’s too much of an effort to keep it upright, “Jus’ better when you do it.”

Normally, Caitlin would pass that off as empty flattery, or some little scheme to try and do something obscene, but between being strung out on cold medicine and running a mild fever, she doubts Mick has the presence of mind to try anything so elaborate.

Across the room, where she’s curled up in an armchair with a pillow and three blankets, Lisa makes a piteous little whine. Cisco, dressed for the occasion in gloves, a surgical mask, and protective booties, hurries over with a glass of water, “The tea’s almost ready,” he says soothingly, “just a few more minutes.”

Lisa looks a world apart from a glamor queen in black leather: her long curls are limp and tied back from her face; her face is pale to offset the alarming red of her nose, and her eyes are slightly bloodshot from a lack of sleep over the last couple days. She sips the water gingerly, coughs a little when the chill scraps over her raw throat, and drops back onto the pillow with the same air of exhaustion.

“Little hay fever, my ass…” Mick growls, dabbing at his nose, “Shoulda locked him in a closet,” he sneezes again, twice, “soon as his nose started runnin’.”

“Hindsight and all, Mick.” It’s Caitlin who brings in the tea on a little tray; Mick mumbles gratitude as she sets the steaming mug in his hands, “Besides, you can take solace in that, however miserable you and Lisa feel, it’s nothing compared to how Snart feels right now.”

“We all hab th’ same code…” Lisa slurs miserably, dragging the blankets closer as she quivers with another chill.

“True,” Cisco nods, helping her hold the mug as she uneasily sips the contents, “but only your brother has Barry as his nursemaid.”

Right on cue, as if to add generous fortitude to Cisco’s words, footsteps echo softly down the stairs, then Barry appears with a tray of empty dishes, a tied-up bag of used tissues, and a bundle of laundry under one arm. He zips around – puts dishes in the sink to soak, throws out the trash, starts the laundry – then reappears with a mug of tea, a couple more boxes of tissues, and the cold medicine.

“Barry,” Caitlin’s eyebrows lift high on her forehead, “wasn’t he supposed to take his cold medicine an hour ago?”

“Was, yes. He wouldn’t take it.” The answer is a little too calm to sit well with anyone, “So now…we’re doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“…dude, you wouldn’t.” Cisco says slowly.

“Oh, _please_ say you would.” Mick blows his nose with the delicacy of an elephant seal trumpeting on the beach, “I’ll make you a goddamn steak dinner for – _achoo!_ – Christmas.”

“Oh, I would.” Barry’s smile looks two shades off maniacally homicidal, “Almost two weeks of dealing with his attitude, complete lack of gratitude, and having used tissues thrown at me like he’s a five-year-old? You better _believe_ I would.”

They watch him ascend the stairs yet again, wait five…ten minutes, and then a singularly undignified squawk erupts from the upstairs bedroom. From there, the cacophony collectively descends into furniture thumping into walls, something breaking on the floor, and Barry shouting threats and promises no one would have ever associated with his cherub-like demeanor prior to this moment.

“Definitely steak dinner,” Mick looks extraordinarily satisfied, despite needing to dab at his runny nose again, “all trimmings included.”

“I make b’ownies…” Lisa adds sleepily; her head is cushioned on both the pillow and Cisco’s lap, where he’s perched on an armrest and rubbing at the tension build-up in her neck.

“He’ll hold you both to that promise, trust me.” Caitlin doesn’t bother to keep the smirk off her face any more than Mick; she glances at the thermometer and makes a pleased sound, “Your temperature is finally dropping. But you need to keep taking the meds – both of you.”

“Guess you gotta stick ‘round to make sure of it?” Mick cracks a small grin and earns himself a roll of the eyes.

“Extortionist.” Caitlin mutters, but her tone is fond and a tiny smile tugs at her lips, “You better include us in that steak dinner promise.”

“Count – _ACHOO!_ – on it.”

***

“Don’t touch me.”

“I need to take your temperature.”

“Don’t _touch_ me.”

“Leonard,” Barry pushes out a tight breath and refuses to dwell on the ridiculousness of speaking to a mound of blankets and pillows on the bed, “you are testing what little remains of my patience. Now get out here and act like an adult.”

“No,” Snart is as petulant as ever, but the fact Barry can hear his clogged sinuses from a mile away completely defeats the purpose of his snarky little attitude, “take whad you want an’ geb out.”

“Take what I want? Leonard, that doesn’t even make sense.” Barry rubs a hand over his face and endeavors to not sigh at the way Snart blows his nose, so hard it has to physically hurt, “What am I supposed to do, take the artwork you pilfered from the museum last week?”

“Yes, Barry.” A hand pokes out from under the blankets to make an aborted gesture and toss the used tissue away; his nose sounds a little clearer (for now) which means the snark can creep back into action, “Take the art. Take the cold gun. Take the chicken soup. Just leave me with the one nostril I can breathe through and what’s left of my dignity.”

Barry huffs again, rolls up his sleeves, and yanks the blankets off in one swift motion. The abrupt exposure – not to chill, because this safehouse has so much heat pumping through it that Barry can only imagine what the energy bill is going to look like, but of his person in general – has Snart swinging a hand at random, trying to grab the covers back in place, and then growling when he realizes everything is pooled at his ankles. It might be the least intimidating sound Barry has ever heard out of the man.

“Now,” Barry kneels on the bed beside the man’s bristling shape, “hold still and let me take your temperature.”

He’s ninety-nine percent sure that Snart just flipped him off, but doesn’t investigate the possibility. “…you’re still running hot.” Barry sighs, “Then again, considering you’re covered in blankets, I can’t tell if that’s your actual temperature or the result of being buried.”

“Pick an option that will ge…ge…ge— _choo_! Get…get you out of my room.”

“Okay, let me put it to you this way,” Barry drops within the older man’s vision line; the mattress dip in such close proximity earns a half-cracked glare from clouded blue eyes, “the only way you’re going to get me out of your room is if you do it yourself, and at the current moment, that’s a feat I would pay _money_ to see you try. So, you don’t have to like it, but you might as well accept that I’m not going anywhere until I think you’re remotely capable of some movement beyond blowing your nose raw.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Barry,” so the man hasn’t entirely lost concept of the passage of time, “do you honestly have _nothing_ better to do?”

“Need I remind you,” Barry says with no small smugness, “ _you_ are the one who decided to make a blizzard inside the bank vault just to slow me down. Unfortunately for you and your complete lack of planning, _I_ can’t get sick from prolonged exposure to the cold and damp. So…do I have nothing better to do than milk the ‘I told you so’ from now until the new year? No, sir, I do not.”

Indeed, Snart does _not_ have to like it, and he doesn’t, but with a truly exhausted sigh and undignified plop back into the pillows, he accepts it.


End file.
